year old stew



My muse is the ghost and everlasting spirit of Carl Jung.



He's got this illusory blender jug that he periodically screws into the crown of my skull.



Channeling residual dust from the atomic explosions at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he's biannually enabled via the jug to sneeze 45% of the harpies from Pandora's box down through my memory hole for capping, blending, and non-selective processing by me.



Stray strands of Pandora's lank, fervid hair drive the old man mad and send me in search of Milwaukee's Best.



*



damn your bullshit

I screamed

at the hallway mirror



damn your blank eggshell cover

I screamed at the wall



You do not own me

is a phrase

shouted at



(what's the opposite of martyr?)



*



she's probably 20



she handled that bottle of wine

though



with expertise



*



turn the radio on



adjust the fan



be wired in the smoke



*



how did you perform?